Chapter 14

"Impressive," Matt admits. "Where’d you learn to balance a kick like that?"

"I’ve spent enough time behind the pine to know the art. Bartending isn't just pouring drinks; it’s about chemistry. Most people just slap shit together. I prefer a more… calculated approach."

Troy leans in. "I haven't seen you around here before. You new to the floor?"

"Fresh off the boat," she says, dry and unbothered.

"Well, if you like the atmosphere, you’re in luck," Troy says, flashing his most charming 'owner' smile. "I happen to own the place. Anything you need, you just ask for me."

Jessica doesn't look impressed. "Good for you. It’s a decent playground. Not bad at all."

Matt shifts his weight. "By the way," his voice drops into that deep, authoritative tone that usually makes women lean in. "You look beautiful tonight. The dress is a hell of a statement."

"Thanks," she meets his eyes. "You look good, too. Bespoke suit, expensive watch—you certainly wear the affluence well."

Matt smirks, sensing an opening. "Actually, my friend and I were just discussing a little wager. A bet, if you will. We’re looking for someone with the right… stamina to help us settle it. Interested in having some real fun?"

Jessica looks between the two of them, her red lips curling into a sharp, knowing smile. She takes another sip of her drink and sets it down with a deliberate thud.

"I’ll pass," she says bluntly. "I’m not in the business of stoking anyone's ego tonight. Especially not two guys who think a bet makes a woman a game piece."

The rejection hits Matt like a cold slap. In the boardroom, he never hears "no." In the bedroom, he’s used to women practically auditioning for a spot in his sheets. He radiates the kind of power that usually acts as a universal key. To be dismissed so casually by a girl in a skimpy black dress is a first.

"What's your offer then?" Matt asks, voice tight with intrigue. "Everyone has a price, or at least a preference."

"What are you offering?" she counters, her eyes mocking him.

Matt starts to list the usual suspects—the private suite, the top-shelf vintage, the kind of "perks" that would make a normal girl's head spin. 

"You guys are cute. You think because you’re wearing watches that cost more than a mid-sized sedan, you can just buy a ticket to the show?"

Troy’s smirk falters. "It’s a generous offer. Most girls in this room would kill for a seat at this table."

"I’m not most girls, you arrogant prick," she snaps, her eyes flashing. "I sure as hell don’t need two suits trying to coordinate a schedule on my pussy. I choose who I have fun with on my terms. I don’t follow a script, and I certainly don’t perform for a trophy.”

Troy looks at Matt, seeing the frantic, competitive fire in his friend's eyes. He leans over and mouths, “Let it go, man. There are plenty of other fishes in the ocean." 

But Matt doesn't look away. He isn't thinking about the "other fishes." He’s thinking about the one that just bit him and brushed him off. 

He clears the static of the rejection from his head. He isn't a man who stumbles; he recalibrates. He isn't used to chasing, and he’s damn sure not going to start sounding desperate now. 

He adjusts his cufflink, leaning in just enough to let his woodsy scent envelope her. "Maybe we started on the wrong foot," his voice regains that smooth, anchor-man baritone. "I'm Matt Kingston. This degenerate next to me is Troy Vasquez

"Jessica Vance," she says, unimpressed.

"Jessica Vance," he repeats, testing the name like a new acquisition. "A pleasure, Jessica. That rum blend is not something someone just stumbles into. It requires an eye for the leverage in a bottle."

"It requires not being a lazy drinker," she takes a sip. "Most people take what’s given. I prefer to dictate the ingredients."

"A woman who demands custom specifications," a faint, predatory smirk touches his lips. "You have a very specific kind of gravity. Most people in this room are trying too hard to be seen. You’re just... existing, and yet you're the only thing worth looking at."

"Is that the opening line for the pitch?" Jessica asks, a sharp, amused glint in her eyes. "Because if it is, it's a bit dusty, Matt. I expected something more 'bespoke' from a man with your tailoring.”

Matt smirks at the challenge, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light catches the condensation. "Fair point. Let's skip the brochure. I’m a man who deals in high-value assets, and I can tell when I’m looking at someone who doesn't belong on a standard list.

Surely there’s something you want that isn’t on the menu tonight. Something a bit more 'off-market'?"

She chuckles. “That’s a colonial mindset, Kingston. You see something pretty and you immediately start wondering how to put a fence around it.” She meets his gaze. "But some landscapes are meant to be hiked, not owned."

"I never said anything about a fence," Matt’s gaze drops to her red lips for a fraction of a second too long. "I’m more interested in the hike. The kind that leaves you breathless and slightly ruined by the time you reach the summit.”

Her voice drops to a lethal, quiet whisper. “You’ve got that 'top of the food chain' look. It’s impressive, I guess. If you’re into that sort of thing.”

Matt's smirk hitches higher. He likes the bite. "I’m looking at a lot of wasted potential. You’re sitting here playing critic when you could be the main event."

"You think everyone has a pressure point. A number, a title, a specific kind of thrill. You’re trying to find mine so you can check a box and move on to the next deal."

His eyes darken. "I'm trying to find out if you're as expensive as you look, because from where I'm standing, the price of admission seems worth the investment. Tell me, Jessica, what does it take to get a woman like you to stop 'observing' and start participating?"